


From the Beginning

by BritBitch



Series: Behind Those Eyes [2]
Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Angst, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-10 07:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11687304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritBitch/pseuds/BritBitch
Summary: A prequel to Behind Those Eyes, our ladies take us back to the beginning. Again using their own words, they share the experiences, emotions and trials that led them to the Ritz Tower and back into each other’s lives.This work will consist of moments we have already witnessed, as well as some additional scenes. It is not necessary to read Behind Those Eyes before reading this.





	1. Salesgirl

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! First things first, thank you for reading this and giving this prequel a go. It's much appreciated. I also need to make it clear that I will not be posting regularly yet. Life has reared its ugly head and been a bit all over the place, and I'll only be able to start posting regularly once I have a few more chapters prepared. However, I thought I'd offer up the first chapter now and hope it goes down well!
> 
> I want to state that this prequel is neither based solely on the book nor film. It is a culmination of both with my own flair added in for extra measure. When I first came up with the idea for a prequel, I was really quite excited about it, and still am. However, I quickly came to realise that doing this comes with risks I hadn't faced with Behind Those Eyes. Presumably everybody reading this has read the book/watched the film/both, and, therefore, will have their own interpretations of scenes I will be covering throughout. As a result, it will be impossible to please everybody. I'm okay with that, it can't be helped; I just wanted to forewarn readers that I am simply writing of my own interpretations. Nonetheless, I sincerely hope you will enjoy!
> 
> Also, so many thanks deserve to be cast Farflung's way. She has stepped up to the role of being my proof-reader for the duration of this story and I couldn't be more grateful.

I wish I could tell you that something remarkable or out of the ordinary happened on that morning in December 1952, something that acted as a forewarning as to how my life would forever be changed when I encountered one particular salesgirl while Christmas shopping. Perhaps something fanciful, like a butterfly flying through one of the windows and landing daintily on my hand as I sipped my first coffee of the day, or even just a moment of self-realisation, where I paid attention to how profoundly unhappy I was in the life I was living, how lonely and hollow I felt. There should have been, shouldn’t there? Isn’t that how all of those romance stories start? What all of the great love songs talk of? Knowing everything that is missing from one’s life and then finding that single elusive puzzle piece that makes everything feel wonderful?

Alas, I cannot, and I refuse to lie. If I am going to do this, to tell you of my story, share with you my experiences, I am going to do so properly, no matter how much that might terrify me. And so, I have to concede that there was no butterfly to wonder upon, no self-realisation to push me into deciding to change my life. I remained oblivious to my fate as I ate breakfast, and dressed, and spent some time with my daughter, Rindy. I had not one clue that, when I would return to the house later that day, I would be irreversibly changed, my life would be set upon a thoroughly unexpected path. As I drove from New Jersey to New York, I did not spend my time pondering my life choices, or how difficult yet wonderful, how painful yet exhilarating, the next few months might be. Instead, I tried to force all thought from my mind, though the nausea rising in my stomach told me I wasn’t committing to this action fully. I’ve never enjoyed shopping, not in department stores at any rate, and especially not during the Christmas period, when it feels like all of America emerge from their homes as one and flood the stores.

I only had myself to blame, however. If I hadn’t detested the hustle and bustle of shopping in New York, I suppose I would have made the inevitable trip before that morning, instead of repeatedly putting it off and, as a result, causing my reticence to increase further with every passing day. In the end, I had been forced to give myself a stern talking to. Christmas was just around the corner and leaving the expedition just one more day could mean that Rindy’s and Abby’s gifts would be delivered late. It’s to my embarrassment that I admit Abby, my oldest and closest friend, was used to this and wouldn’t have minded one bit, but I refused to not have a present to give to my daughter on Christmas Eve, before she went to spend the holidays with her father, Harge, and his parents. The thought of not spending time with Rindy on Christmas Day made me grip the steering wheel tighter, another swell of nausea rising up within. I reached for a cigarette and lit it, putting much effort into shifting my attention to putting a concrete plan of action in place which would, hopefully, allow me to get in and out of Frankenberg’s as quickly as possible. It helped that I already knew what I was getting.

I took a deep breath as I approached the department store, inwardly recoiling as I bore witness to what appeared to be hundreds of men, women and children milling around, and then walked inside, keeping my eyes on the elevator bank and working hard to exude calm as I weaved through the many shoppers, my head high and shoulders back. I was relieved to see one set of doors open, followed by a torrent of pushing women, and quickened my pace, hurrying inside and pressing the button that would take me to the ninth floor, the sport department. A woman with a harried expression and three small children offered me a tight smile as she stepped inside, and I barely had time to reciprocate in kind before a deluge of shoppers made it so I was backed into the corner. I itched for another cigarette, my fingers curling tightly around the strap of my bag, as we slowly made our way up the floors. As I recall it, we stopped on each one, and the elevator would empty slightly for a second before filling right back up again, even more so than before, like the ebb and flow of an angry tide. I couldn’t have been happier as the doors opened on the ninth floor and I managed to escape.

I found the ski section with ease, and it didn’t take me long to find what I wanted—a fine pair of skis to replace Abby’s old ones, one of which had been irreparably broken during her last vacation to Aspen—and order it. I’d elicited a promise from the salesman that it would be delivered to Abby’s house in time for Christmas before leaning over to fill out the C.O.D slip, and, when I looked back up, I found him to be staring at me. I raised an eyebrow, idly watching his eyes widen, hearing him clear his throat, as he flashed me his best smile. I forced one in response, wished him a Merry Christmas and turned on my heel, making quick work of reaching the escalator bank, though hesitating for a brief moment before pressing the button.

The sport department had been, thankfully, relatively quiet, or at least compared to what I knew the toy department would be like. I shook my head at myself and hit the button. The sooner I confronted the mayhem of scurrying women and children falling over themselves to get what they wanted, the sooner I would be back in my car and driving back to the house. I glanced at my watch as I waited, and then straightened up, bracing myself for the impact of trying to force myself inside of a packed elevator. It took a couple of minutes for it to reach me, and I stepped to one side to allow the small handful of people to leave, and then quickly stepped inside, pleased that the light for the sixth floor was already shining. Again, we stopped at every floor on the way down.

I inched nearer to the doors as the elevator slowed once more, exiting hastily as they opened, and walking into the main section. I glanced around the large area, which was, of course, as busy as I had imagined, and paused for a split-second as I spied the decorations that sat neatly atop of, or hung from, every available space. The entire store had obviously been decorated with the holiday spirit in mind, but the toy department really was something else. It looked as though Christmas had been struck down by a stomach bug and had vomited glitter, candles, ribbon, wreaths, and bells, in every direction, with the addition of some display gifts nestled under a large, towering tree. I remembered guiltily that I hadn’t picked up a tree of my own yet, making a mental note to do so the following weekend. My eyes travelled across the cluttered space again, only to be drawn to a large, rather beautiful, trainset that looked to be powered by electricity, as a train hurtled around a circular track that surrounded a smaller, artfully built town. I approached it without really thinking, watching the train as it completed a circuit, absentmindedly loosening my scarf as I turned my attention to the buildings.

I hadn’t really paid close attention to trainsets before, but there was a sophistication in that one displayed in Frankenberg’s that almost seemed to command appreciation. I was taking note of the small model people, marvelling at the effort which must have been put into the entire thing, when the train slowed for a small second and then stopped completely. I searched for a switch or lever, finding it placed just beneath the display. About to turn it on, I wondered if that was a job for one of the many salesgirls, if I would get my knuckles rapped if I touched it. I hesitated, scanning the room, about to go ahead and pull the lever when I saw that everybody looked to be busy, and then … well, then, in the space of a breath, all thoughts of the trainset abruptly vanished from my mind as I caught the wide green eyes of a salesgirl across the room.

I wish I could adequately describe to you exactly how I felt as our eyes met, but there aren’t enough words. Truly. What I can tell you is that there was something close to mesmerising about her eyes, and I know that, even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have looked away. I felt something stir within me, something unknown, as I stared at her, my mind suddenly devoid of thoughts, my heart pumping just a beat too quickly, watching her without a trace of subtlety as I remained caught under her gaze. My surroundings faded away, until there was only her, only those beautiful eyes that seemed to see far, far past the superficial, that seemed to search my soul and leave me feeling more vulnerable and bewilderingly euphoric than I could ever remember. I’d never experienced anything like that before; I know I never will again. I could have stayed in those wondrous few seconds for eternity, and would have, if it weren’t for another shopper going up to my salesgirl and taking her attention away from me. I blinked when the gaze ended, slowly becoming aware that I was gripping my gloves tightly in both hands, confusion settling upon my mind like a heavy fog.

I looked around quickly, convinced that somebody must have witnessed that otherworldly moment, must have seen me rooted to the spot, oblivious to all around me except for her. Nobody was even looking in my direction. I was beyond thankful, though genuinely astonished that not one person had felt the change of atmosphere, the sudden charge in the air. Almost without thinking, I pulled the lever and quickly walked away, further into the store, utterly confounded at what had just happened, feeling uncomfortably exposed. I moved around the perimeter of the department. I can recall picking up a couple of items and putting them back down again, looking without seeing, but I cannot for the life of me remember what they were. My eyes kept returning to the trainset, and then to the general vicinity of the counter of my salesgirl, without my permission, though I also recall feeling frustrated that there were too many people in my way, not because of my dislike of crowds, but because they were depriving me of my view. I turned away, needing to try to get a hold of my thoughts, to try and comprehend what on earth I was doing, what I was feeling, and found myself confronted with a large selection of dolls clothes. I tried to focus on them, tried to remember if I had planned to buy an outfit, but my concentration was thoroughly shot. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.

By the time I opened them again, I was turning back around, eyes searching as I left the aisle and moved closer to the centre of the room, mumbling an apology as I bumped into someone, though my eyes were glued to the back of a tall woman’s head as she held up a boxed item, inadvertently, yet infuriatingly, acting as the final barrier between my salesgirl and me. I shifted to the left, and then forced myself to look at the counters, to see if any of the other salesgirls were available. I felt wholly ridiculous when I saw that they weren’t and felt a subsequent wave of nonsensical gratitude washing over me. Would it have made a difference if there had been another salesgirl waiting patiently to take my order? Actually, yes, in all likelihood. I would have bypassed the woman with the enchanting eyes, perhaps even feeling vaguely thankful that I had managed to avoid any further conflict within my soul. But that sliver of thankfulness would have been irreparably marred by the disappointment I realised I would have felt at not having the chance to see her, hear her voice, share a few words. The sense of relief flowing through me as a result of knowing that I had every reason to approach my green-eyed salesgirl told me that. The tall woman walked away and I was finally afforded a glimpse of the counter. For the smallest of seconds, I felt my heart inexplicably sink as I saw an empty space, and then I saw the Santa hat. She was crouched down behind the counter. Of course she was.

I stood still for a moment and then exhaled slowly, lifting my shoulders and striding towards her. What did I think I was playing at, skulking around a department store like a child? I was a grown woman, for fuck’s sake, a grown woman who was, for some unfathomable reason, acting like a fool because of one look across a toy department. Perhaps I was coming down with something. Rindy had only just recovered from a rather nasty case of chickenpox, perhaps I had caught it. There had to be some explanation, surely, for my completely uncharacteristic and confounding behaviour. Looking back, it’s obvious, embarrassingly so, and I cannot quite believe that I didn’t know. But … I didn’t. I was clueless. It was so very unnerving that I attempted to do the only thing I could think of; I tried to raise my usually ever-present barriers. Behind them, I was safe, and what I was feeling at that moment didn’t feel safe, at all. My mind screamed for me to simply wait for another available salesgirl. My feet refused to listen as they propelled me ever closer, and in those last couple of seconds, all I could hope for was that she wouldn’t see the slipping of my mask. 

I closed the distance between us and dropped my gloves onto the counter, with as much confidence as I could muster.


	2. Powerless

I watched her closely for the smallest fraction of a second as she lifted her head, her eyes settling upon my gloves at first and then travelling to reach mine. Determined to keep my wits about me, to keep her at arm’s length, even though everything that had led up to this moment acted as a perfect contradiction to that, I reached into my bag, our eyes only meeting for a brief instant before I averted my gaze, busying myself with the task at hand.

“I wonder if you might help me find this doll for my daughter,” I said, relieved that my voice was not betraying me. I’d retrieved the slip of paper I had hastily scribbled upon the previous night, and now handed it to her, my eyes lifting from the paper and finding hers again, a small thrill rushing through me as I realised she had been staring at me throughout, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at my lips as she looked down at my loose scrawl. I followed suit.

“Bright Betsy,” she read aloud, her voice soft, sweet, even more so than I had envisioned. “Oh, she cries.” I looked up, our eyes meeting at the same moment. That unknown emotion that had erupted within my stomach while I had been looking at her from the trainset bubbled mercilessly, demanding to be acknowledged. What was it about this girl? Why was I finding her so fascinating? It was deeply unsettling. I almost felt as if I knew her, as if I had known her my entire life, which was obviously not the case, but, for a long second, I found myself trying to place her, trying to make sense of the instant intimacy I felt with her, an intimacy that was so far removed from my usual self, that was so strong and automatic, that it left me baffled. I don’t believe I had ever been more thankful for those many years I had spent perfecting my detached persona as I was in that moment; such training was serving me well as I worked to ensure my bewilderment didn’t show. Her eyes flickered down to the slip of paper for a split-second and then returned to me. “And wets herself.” A beat passed. “But I’m afraid we’re all out of stock,” she continued, folding up the paper and giving it back to me as she spoke.

I could see the sincerity of her apology in her eyes, could hear it in the underscore of her gentle voice. I released a quiet groan of frustration at myself. It was my own damn fault. “I’ve left it too long,” I muttered as I placed the slip back in my bag, dejectedly wondering where else I would be able to find it. This little expedition of mine was not going at all as I’d planned.

“Well, we have plenty of other dolls,” she said, evidently eager to help. I could see from the corner of my eye her turning away from me, towards the doll display. “Um … all kinds, actually …” She turned back.

Without thinking, I reached for my cigarette case. “Right,” I said, deflated at my own stupidity as I opened the case and set about retrieving a cigarette, unconvinced that I would be able to find a suitable replacement, but feeling with a sudden certainty that I didn’t want to inadvertently upset or offend her, which was another oddity in itself. I didn’t go around making a habit of upsetting salesgirls, not at all, but I also didn’t go out of my way to humour strangers, either. “What was your favourite doll when you were four?”

“Me? I never … not many, to be honest.” I brought the cigarette to my lips, tried to light it. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, stepping closer to me and causing me to stop what I was doing as I regarded her. “You’re not allowed to smoke on the sales floor,” she said, and again I could hear that her apology was genuine.

I hadn’t even fully realised what I was doing, acting more on autopilot than anything else, and I looked at the lighter in my hand with vague surprise. “Oh,” I sighed, once more wondering what on earth was going on with me that morning, becoming more and more convinced that I was in the early stages of chickenpox. “Of all the—” I took the cigarette from between my lips. “Forgive me,” I said, glancing up at her, and then back down. “Shopping makes me nervous,” I explained as I slipped the cigarette back in its case.

“That’s all right,” she replied kindly. “Working here makes me nervous.”

I chuckled in spite of myself, unable to stay in my dejected mood for long. Not around her, at least. “You’re very kind,” I observed as I rummaged through my purse, not pausing to wonder why I was searching for my photograph of Rindy to show the salesgirl. There were too many things I didn’t understand, and I didn’t have the time, the brainpower, or, frankly, the inclination, to try and dissect them all at that moment. I found the picture in its usual place, and looked at it briefly, before flipping it over. “Here she is.”

She reached for it, her dainty hands holding the edges, a slender thumb skimming lightly over the print. “Oh, she looks like you. Around the eyes.”

I felt a swell of pride rise up within as I turned it around and looked at it. Harge, his parents and Florence, our maid, had always spoken of how Rindy was the image of him. It pleased me tremendously to hear the salesgirl’s words. “You think so?” I asked as I glanced up at her, a small but genuine smile on my lips. My gaze landed on Rindy’s smiling face again and my thoughts turned back to its original focus. “What did _you_ want when you were this age?”

“A trainset,” she answered firmly after a moment, much to my surprise. It appeared as though this young woman stood before me kept surpassing my expectations, kept piquing my interest. I looked up from the photograph.

“Really?” I asked. She nodded, her lips turning up into a smile, rewarding me with a glimpse of her dimples. She looked so pure, so innocent and youthful, sweetness and light radiating from her in waves, her eyes filled with warmth. I wondered if, just beneath the surface, she was just like me, if she held as many layers as I did, as many complexities and components. Something about her told me that she did. Something about her made me want to find out. Confusion and uncertainty about how and what I was feeling gave way to panic for a fraction of a second, and I dropped my gaze, unwilling to show any weakness, though my eyes found hers again quickly. “Do you know much about trainsets?” I heard myself asking, my mind apparently conceding momentary defeat to my vocal cords and my fascination for a moment as I probed further.

“I do, actually,” she replied without hesitation. “We just got a new model in last week,” she pointed across the store. “It’s hand-built with hand-painted cars ...” Her enthusiasm shone through her words and managed to elicit another smile from me as I watched her. Honestly, she was a breath of fresh air in a life that often felt stuffy and mundane, empty and banal. I could have listened to her for hours, days, her eyes widening as she spoke, shifting lightly from side to side, her voice intense and enchanting. “It’s a limited edition of five thousand. You might have seen it when you came in, over by the elevators.” I turned to look at it, trying to envision whether Rindy would enjoy such a gift. “I would show you, but I’m sort of confined to this desk.” 

Perhaps it was hearing of my salesgirl’s yearning for a trainset when she was a child, or her enthusiasm as she spoke of it, or, perhaps, the fact I had been drawn to it, myself, appraising the design and sleek nature of it, marvelling at the craftsmanship and technology that had gone into the end result. Most likely, it was a combination of both that led me to such a decision; I was abruptly convinced that Rindy would love it. “Do you ship?” I asked, and then turned back to the counter. Her captivating eyes were trained on me. It took me a second to remember what I had asked.

“Special delivery,” she replied immediately. “You could have it in two or three days.” I nodded as I thought it over. “We’ll even assemble it for you.”

That sealed the deal. I didn’t much feel like trying to construct it myself. “Well,” I remarked with a slow smile, the happiness I felt at having managed to find a gift, after all, without having to prolong my shopping trip, leading me to feel more confident and bolstered than I had since I had first set eyes on my salesgirl. “That’s that. Sold.” I put Rindy’s picture away and, realising that a response was not forthcoming, regarded her for a moment, watching her watching me, a sense of amusement coursing through me, mixed with something I wasn’t yet ready to attempt to identify, as I drank in her green eyes, wide once more as she stared at me, her small, appealingly sculptured mouth, her brown bangs peeking out from beneath her Santa’s hat. My mood was still elevated and I arched an eyebrow, embracing the opportunity provided to gently tease her. “Shall I pay now?”

Her cheeks adopted a darkening pink that made my amusement deepen and my stomach inexplicably lurch. She jumped into action. “Oh, yes. Of course … um,” she said as she looked around before apparently realising the pen she was searching for was right in front of her. She was perfectly adorable in that moment, and I smiled widely as I observed her starting to fill out the sheet of paper, only pausing in my perusal to put my cigarette case back into my bag. I watched her hand move swiftly across the page, small, compact writing left in its wake, glancing back up at her as she finished and started to move the order book around to me. “We’ll need your account details and your shipping address,” she explained as she gave me the pen, her eyes never leaving the form.

“Of course,” I acquiesced as I leaned over slightly, starting to fill out the appropriate sections. I’m not usually a person to embark on small talk, on meaningless conversation, as I’m sure the salesman up in the ski department would readily attest, and yet, before I even really had a chance to question myself, I found myself talking as I wrote. “I love Christmas. At least, I love the preparation – wrapping gifts, and all that.” What in god’s name did I think I was doing, telling her this, acting like little more than a babbling fool? Even as I internally rebuked myself, I continued, unable to stop. “And then, somehow, you end up overcooking the turkey, anyway.” I met her eyes for a brief second and then dropped them back to the page as I finished. Was it even possible to catch chickenpox more than once? I hadn’t thought so. I was sure I had had it as a young child, vivid memories of an endless fever, of violently red blisters spreading all over my clammy skin, coming to mind. I took a deep breath, pushing all of my ponderings to the back of my mind. “Done,” I said with a smile, setting the pen down upon the book and sliding it towards her, studying her again as she looked at the form, my interest in her never having wavered, despite the plethora of doubts threatening to submerge me whole. “Where did you learn so much about trainsets, anyway?” I asked as I looked in my bag.

“Oh, I read,” she replied, causing me to look back up at her. “Too much, probably.”

“It’s refreshing,” I responded, and it was. Where had my salesgirl come from? Out of nowhere, it seemed to me. She was so fine, so young, and enthusiastic, and intelligent, so pretty, and mesmerising, and … special. She was unlike anybody else I had ever met, for reasons that went far beyond what I was then able to comprehend. I couldn’t fool myself into denying that I was attracted to her, she was beautiful, I would have had to be blind not to be, but … my, she was young; naïve, too, I felt. And I certainly wasn’t in the habit of giving out my telephone number or chasing women, even women with extraordinarily disarming eyes, or inviting lips, or glorious dimples. She handed me the order slip and I accepted. “Thank you,” I said, with all the sincerity I possessed, as I placed the slip in my bag and snapped it shut. I raised my eyes and smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she replied softly.

I turned and walked away, only to stop a handful of seconds later and look back towards her with a playful smile, unable to leave without a parting comment, unsurprised to find her watching me. “I like the hat,” I whispered loudly, gesturing with my hand as I did so, looking her up and down one last time, warmth spreading through me as I saw her smile. I didn’t linger, though a part of me certainly wanted to, instead turning away again and walking past the trainset and over to the elevator bank.

I barely noticed the cluster of women waiting for the elevator, my mind working furiously as I tried to determine what it was I had just experienced, what had just transpired between my salesgirl and me. My thoughts raced, troubled and noisy, tripping over themselves in their haste to be heard. The instant connection I felt, the intimacy and intrigue and magnetism, had completely blindsided me, and I was so bewildered by it that trying to comprehend how I felt, or why I felt the way I did, seemed an insurmountable challenge. So lost was I in my thoughts that it was only when I became distantly aware of the people in front of me moving forwards that I realised the elevator doors were open, and I quickly followed suit, for once not bothered in the slightest by the cramped conditions within. I couldn’t tell you how many floors we stopped at during our descent; it was barely within my power to keep myself from falling headlong into an existential crisis as my mind frantically tried to sift through and identify the emotions coursing through me at breakneck speed.

I paid no attention to the busy atrium when I exited the elevator, my thoughts elsewhere as I headed to the main doors and out onto the street. I must have only taken a handful of steps before I paused, rooting through my bag for my cigarette case, retrieving one from within and lighting it. I inhaled greedily, granting my thoughts a brief reprieve as they instead focused on the smoke hitting the back of my throat, my nicotine craving finally sated. I felt myself relax slightly as a result, my shoulders dropping an infinitesimal fraction, suddenly aware that I was stood in the middle of the sidewalk. I slid my bag up onto my shoulder and moved forwards, the momentary relief the first pull of my cigarette had given my mind disappearing as quickly as the grey smoke swirling into nothingness in the sky.

It was not the fact I was attracted to my salesgirl that caused me concern. She was so very fine, and her evident beauty would have been hard to miss. I appreciated an attractive woman when I saw one, and she had such a quality in spades. So, no, I didn’t find that disconcerting in the least. The cause of my panic, the very root of my confusion, was that, somehow, my appreciation for her ran far deeper than a mere casual attraction. I had never met her before, and yet a part of me felt like I’d known her forever. I wasn’t the type to fall for every passing woman I met, and yet my stomach had lurched, my heart had skipped, the moment I had laid eyes on her. Something had shifted within me; I felt changed, different. And that was terrifying. I was used to being in control, to having everything neatly in its place, to keeping my emotions reined in, and it went against everything I thought I had known about myself, to find myself feeling so powerless against whatever it was that was currently flowing through my veins and leaving me with a sense of profound vulnerability.

I reached my car and slid inside, moving my bag onto the passenger seat before leaning back into my seat and closing my eyes. Such an action caused my unruly mind to play an image of my flustered salesgirl, and I cussed under my breath, snapping them open and starting the car, turning on the radio and increasing the volume to drown out the overwhelming silence. I had promised Rindy that I would be back in time to take a picnic in the garden; I couldn’t sit here in my car all day questioning everything I had held to be true about myself.

With one last, long look in the windshield mirror, feeling genuinely surprised that I didn’t look any different after my world had been so thoroughly shaken, I pulled out onto the street, resolutely pushing all thoughts of the morning from my mind as I focused on the road ahead.


	3. The Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to start by giving my sincerest thanks to those of you reading/commenting/leaving kudos/bookmarking/subscribing. Thank you so much for your encouragement and support. I cannot state enough how much I appreciate it. Apologies for my postings being erratic ... life has been busy and I've found it difficult to knuckle down and get some more of this written. I'm hoping to find some time over the next few days.
> 
> This chapter is based around a scene not in the book or film, but in Phyllis Nagy's [final script,](http://twcguilds.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/CAROL_SCRIPT_wCover_R22.pdf) page 22, to be exact. It was only a few lines, but it piqued my interest and so here we are.
> 
> Also, as ever, my endless thanks to the superstar that is Farflung for proofreading and for putting up with my endless rambles.

I paused, hairbrush in hand, and stared at myself in the mirror for a long moment, my eyes narrowed slightly, my brow furrowed, as though trying to see into my soul, seeking answers that I had, as of yet, been unable to find. It had been two days since that morning in Frankenberg’s, two days since I had come face-to-face with my green-eyed salesgirl, two days since I’d felt that irresistible pull, that stuttering of my heart, that unnerving lurch of my stomach. If I was to romanticise this story, I would write of how I thought of nothing but her during that time, I would tell you of how I had dreamed up ways to see her again, how my heart had overruled my head, but that didn’t happen until later.

In reality, much of my time was taken up by Rindy, or by life in general. I didn’t spend the days walking on air, or having to be constantly roused from daydreams. I spent them on my knees, playing with my daughter; out in the chilly wind, picking flowers with her; on the telephone to Abby, dissecting her latest social gathering. I spent my time further preparing for Christmas, worrying about spending the holiday apart from Rindy for the very first time as she stayed with Harge and his parents. I had a routine to follow, things that were expected of me, and I fulfilled my duties with minimal distractions.

What I can say, however, is that I did think of my salesgirl now and then, often at the most unexpected of times. I would be brushing my teeth, or walking up the stairs, or about to take a sip of coffee, and her smiling face, her enchanting dimples, would come to mind, her flushed cheeks and flustered appearance causing to me pause just for a second, the memory of her Santa’s hat, her slender fingers, her wide eyes making my heart come to a stop for a beat and then hurry back into action.

The confusion I had felt was still there, laced with deep and daunting emotions I could not decipher, and I cannot deny that I did, on that first night while lying in bed, briefly wonder if it would look terribly odd if I happened to pay a visit to Frankenberg’s the next time I was in New York, if she would be there, if I would feel all of those unsettling yet enthralling things I felt during that first encounter. 

Almost as soon as the errant thought came to mind, though, I pushed it away. My life was in chaos, I was in the midst of getting a divorce, and everything was just so messy and uncertain. I couldn’t afford to add to that. Besides which, she was young and, as a result, presumably naïve, it would be unfair—cruel, even—to introduce her to a world she knew nothing about, a world she was too young to understand. And, even without taking all of this into account, although I was fairly certain the attraction was mutual, although her pink cheeks, and halting words, and penetrating gaze indicated that she had felt just as blindsided as I had throughout our conversation, I had no way of knowing if her emotions ran as deeply as my own, or if what had transpired between us was of any consequence to her. I couldn’t even identify what my own emotions were. The very fact I had had such a whimsical thought, however, only served to leave my feeling further on edge. It was just another in a long list of occurrences since I had happened upon my salesgirl that was completely out of my character.

And so, I had decided that that was that. Looking back, I am not surprised at the choice I made, though I am aghast to think that, had Therese not taken that first step, it is entirely possible I would have lived a miserable life without her in it. Of course, I suppose it is plausible that I would have seen sense within a couple of days and hurried back to the department store, but I highly doubt that I would have. I’ve told you before of my need for control, of how I have lived a life with everything stored away neatly in boxes, of the beliefs I held about myself, and my feelings, and the self-imposed distance I placed between myself and the world around me. I was not used to feeling helpless, powerless to emotion, and my salesgirl had made me feel just that. A big part of me rallied against it, panic at the potential collapse of everything I had worked so hard to build around myself making me want to run in the opposite direction. I didn’t realise it at the time, but fear was a major component of my life. Fear of being vulnerable, fear of opening myself up to the possibility of hurt, fear of weakness. Because of this, it is far more likely that I would have simply shoved those thoughts and feelings into another little box, not to be opened again, or, at the very least, not until my chance had passed and I was destined for a life devoid of love, not until I had turned down the single greatest opportunity of happiness I had ever been presented.

I scowled at my reflection, shook my head in exasperation, and brought the hairbrush to my head again, brushing out my hair in slow yet firm strokes, watching as my coiffed hair started to fall naturally around my face. I reached for the cigarette burning away in the ashtray and took a long drag, looking back into the mirror and watching the grey smoke linger about my lips until I exhaled, my eyes following the long stream of smoke until it disappeared. Returning the cigarette to the ashtray, I picked up my tumbler of scotch, taking a large swig and feeling the liquor burn the back of my throat deliciously, warming my insides as I swallowed. I tried to concentrate on what I was doing even though I knew it was hopeless, even as my right hand made its way to rest in my lap, or, rather, what lay there, my left repeatedly pulling the hairbrush through my hair again and again until my frustration made itself known by way of a hissed expletive and I brought it to the table with more force than was required.

I looked down to my lap, to my traitorous hand that quietly held the gloves I had lost two days previous, my thumb lightly skimming over the soft material, back and forth, feigning ignorance to my ire. Resting precariously on my knee was a note, reading:

__

Salutations from Frankenberg’s Department Store.  
Employee 645-A.

__

__  


I reached for my cigarette again, now almost burned right down, and inhaled deeply, reading the note for what felt like the hundredth time, even though the words were already forever ingrained in my memory.

I hadn’t had a chance to open my mail until after Rindy had left with Harge for the night, in the early afternoon. In fact, I had forgotten all about it, strewn across my bed from where Harge had dropped it upon his arrival, and it wasn’t until just before dinner when the trainset had arrived and I had run up to my bedroom to retrieve my chequebook from my purse that I had been reminded of it. I barely looked at the items, instead scooping them all up with one hand and hurrying back down the stairs to where two young men were making quick work of setting up the trainset, and writing out the cheque.

After I had seen them out, I returned to the living room, admiring the trainset again, my mind inevitably drifting back to my salesgirl before I forced the thoughts away and turned to the mail I had set upon the table. The package of course caught my attention first, and I peered at the postmark, eyebrows rising slightly as I noted it had been sent from New York. I opened it quickly, surprised to find my gloves contained within, grateful to whomever had sent them. I hadn’t realised I had lost them until I was almost back at the house, my mind utterly scrambled as I left the department store, so much so, I thought with a sense of dismay, that I hadn’t even noticed the cold air biting at my hands as I hurried back to my car. I tried to remember where I had lost them, it could only have been in the ski or toy department, but my memory failed me. So much had happened that I simply couldn’t be sure, though I guessed I had left them in the ski department, in my haste to get away from the leering salesman.

Of course, I could have called the store, asked them to check for me. It had also occurred to me, during my brief fantasy of returning to Frankenberg’s, that I could have used my lost gloves as pretence for my reappearance. Ultimately, though, I had resigned myself to not seeing them again. It was a shame—they were nice gloves—but I had plenty more. It was unlikely that they would still be in the store, anyway, what with how busy it had been with Christmas shoppers. And so I truly was surprised to find them back in my possession, pulling them from the packaging in order to study them closer and finding a loose note floating to the floor. I reached down and picked it up, my eyes quickly flitting across the page, over the scant words, and then reading it again, slower this time.

I won’t pretend that my heart swelled ever so slightly, with what I now know was a sliver of hope. I found myself studying the writing. Was it my salesgirl’s? It was narrow, compact, like I remembered, but bigger, slightly slanted, embedded into the paper as though the writer had been pressing the pen forcefully against it. Was I inadvertently trying to make it fit my salesgirl’s handwriting? Why was I so terrible at keeping C.O.D slips? I could not, for the life of me, remember what the ski salesman’s writing looked like. The note was short, perfunctory, though that didn’t help me in the slightest. 

I studied it for a few minutes, turning it over in my hand as though expecting an explanation written on the other side, tilting my head one way to read it and then the other, until I realised how foolish I was being, abruptly exasperated with myself as I placed the gloves and note to one side, determinedly paying them not one bit of attention as I quickly opened the rest of the letters. There was nothing of interest, a Christmas card addressed to Harge and I from one of his business acquaintances, and another couple of things of so little importance that I don’t remember them.

I suppose because Rindy was away with her father and Florence was out for the evening visiting her sister, I was unable to seek distraction from others, and I spent much of the evening thinking of the note, my ire increasing with each intruding thought, until I found myself sitting at my dressing table staring at the note yet again. Employee 645-A. I sighed loudly. Why hadn’t they signed it with their name? Why was it irritating me so? Not wanting to delve into that particular question, I took another drag of my cigarette, eyes glued to the slip of paper. This was ridiculous. I was being a fool, staring at a handful of words, allowing them to invade my thoughts so much. I set my jaw and crumpled the note in my hand, sliding my knees to the side and throwing it into the waste basket. I looked away, back to the dressing table, purposefully avoiding the mirror. Aware that my cigarette was almost burned through, I took one last long pull and ground it into the ashtray.

I stared at the hairbrush for a few long seconds, then looked at the tumbler of scotch. I sighed again, quietly this time, my hand lying limp atop of the gloves still in my lap. I felt deflated, strangely depleted and filled with dread, and reluctantly returned my gaze to the waste basket. I could see the very corner of the crumpled note, could feel the unwanted pull within me. I closed my eyes, started to count to ten. I reached four before I opened them again with a loud sigh and leaned in to pick the slip of paper up again, placing it on the table and using both hands to smooth it out. I couldn’t explain it, and I didn’t know what, if anything, I was going to do about it, but every fibre within me was telling me I had to keep it. It’s rather odd, to explore this memory of mine. Hindsight has granted me eternal relief for the instincts that told me to retrieve that note, but I remember clearly how furious I was at myself that night. I pushed myself away from the table and stood, turning my back on the note and walking towards the bathroom in order to brush my teeth ready for bed. I refused to acknowledge the sudden peace that had planted itself in my stomach and silenced the dread, avoiding my eyes as I stood in front of the mirror and raised the toothbrush to my mouth, scared of what I might see.


End file.
